


Something You Need to Do

by jaythewriter



Series: Misplaced Attachments [10]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, Part of the Misplaced Attachments series, Reggie the Deer returns, Takes place after the three Post-MA stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay wants to go exploring of his own will, not for the sake of finding answers. He doesn't know if he can pick up such a habit again without hurting himself in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something You Need to Do

It takes a lot of convincing, pushing, huffing and puffing, and maybe, yeah, you’ll admit it, whining for Alex and Tim to allow you to go off on your own.

It’s not that they don’t trust you, or…

Okay, they kind of don’t, not as much as they might say they do. 

They don’t trust the deepest parts of you, the parts that you’ve kept safely buried away beneath a new taste for what life has to offer you and your friends. Sharing the same two blankets and same four pillows every night gives them access to secrets you would have kept hidden away, if it weren’t for the vulnerability that comes of slumbering next to those you love.

They know what you dream of, know of the shivers that rock your body when the brain-born creatures catch up to you-- know what names you softly exhale through barely parted lips.

As much as you may deny it and make up excuses that you’ve always sleep-talked, those nightmares affect you. They creep into your blood and sit like little needles, pricking into you as near-constant reminders that they’re there and you have no way of getting rid of them. No amount of therapy, kisses, good food, or normal life can change it. Scars, mental, physical, emotional, they are for forever, and they don’t give a damn whether they’re wanted or not. 

Those needles speak to you if you listen close enough. Guilt is their favorite tactic of getting you to stand on their side: they remind you that you’re denying the truth of who you really are at heart. 

A troublemaker. A man with blood soaking his hands, running over onto his shoes and leaving footprints to be found in the middle of the nowhere he trapped himself inside of. 

Troublemakers receive punishment. They’re put into the corner and have a finger shaken in their faces and that same finger presses down onto their windpipe until it convulses with one last attempt at a needy inhale.

Sometimes you want to let the prickling thoughts have their way. Just because there’s so many of them. And you’ve spent so, so long believing them, they were all you knew during those nights spent beneath the stars as they stared in on you accusingly. It was the only truth, the single thing you could hold to yourself with ever steady certainty as again and again you proved that you weren’t worthy of the gift of life.

You don’t shed such an overpowering part of your brain like a snake shrugging out of its old skin. It lingers as a stench, on your body and in your heart, and Tim and Alex worry that if you go out and do this to yourself, it’s going to overwhelm you and they’ll never see you again.

But you need to do this.

You can’t place where the urge came from. The exploration of the unknown, setting out of your own will, digging up secrets for the sake of digging them up and not for fear of not figuring out a string of letters fast enough?

Maybe. You want to do something for yourself, though, rather than a force that’s bearing down upon you and threatening to stop your heart.

You’re in control. 

The place you choose isn’t special in any way. No mysterious fires growing up out of the ground and leaving it a hollow blackened carcass. No floods bursting from the pipes and drowning away any sign of life. No ghost stories, no backyard graves, no corpses or shattered glass.

Nothing.

Once upon a time, it was an orphanage, full of eager children and strangely attentive staff. The history behind it is hardly grisly save for a few babies being taken too early in life by an attack of tuberculosis. There were plans written out and even money put forth on getting the building revamped and turned into perhaps a shop or a retirement home, something useful for the community when all the children’s caretakers were far past their prime.

Somewhere along the line though, the abandoned building was simply forgotten about. It was too out of the way to be of any use to the community and the only hint that remained of its once lively existence lays hidden away on the internet, sitting around on a blog dedicated to structures that have gone untouched for decades.

Perhaps you go venturing out to it for that reason, that it was left behind by those who once appeared to care about it. Not as though a building can have /feelings/ and maybe you’re silly for growing emotionally attached to a goddamn crumbling pile of bricks but whatever, it’s your building, your choice, yours, your /freedom/.

You set out on your walk after breakfast, after Tim has vanished off to work and Alex is gone with him, piled into the backseat with an ill-fitting tie and a grimace to match for his interview at the local theatre. They’re both aware of what you’re doing today, and you expect a text to rattle your phone every hour or even half hour. 

‘you okay? do i need to come pick you up? everything’s kosher? what’s up? just checking in’

It’s all well-meaning and if you’re honest, it makes you smile. How strange it is to be constantly worried over. 

Still, you’re determined to make certain that there will be no reason for them to fuss. You walk with a clear head, focusing on the number of steps you take across the dirt path that winds out from the Kralies’ backyard. Shadows are meaningless to you, even as they stretch toward you with long fingers and teeth eager to sink into your flesh. All the eyes that you truly need are in your head; no camcorders, no chest-mounted cameras, none of that, not anymore.

Even when you pick up on the far off crackle of twigs snapping, you don’t jump. You freeze in your tracks and whip your head around, though it’s not with a pounding heart and clenched fists. Whatever it is, you don’t want to come across as a threat, because this is going to be an animal, a simple animal, nothing more, nothing less. 

And you’re right: parting the foliage laying within their path using their head, a small white tailed deer emerges from the shade cast off by a pair of tall oaks. They blink their long lashes at you, and their fluffy tail wags fast at the sight of you standing before them.

This could be any deer, and you wouldn’t know for sure, if it weren’t for their tail whipping about with excitement. 

“Reggie,” you call out with a faint smile. They bow their head shyly and stroll towards you, hooves thunking quietly against the dirt. You stoop over at the waist, reaching out and stroking the little beast’s ears, causing them to twitch beneath your touch. Reggie’s fur is softer than ever, probably from your attentive brushing whenever they drop by the Kralie backyard to visit you.

“You wanna come with me?” you coo to them, taking on the voice that parents save for their babies and everybody else saves for little dogs. They tilt their head back, tongue flicking out and leaving behind a damp tickly line on your wrist. 

Taking that as a yes, you pat Reggie on the head one more time and turn to face down the dirt path you were trekking. The deer, ever loyal and curious, clomps along behind you, sniffing the air and wagging their tail ever faster. 

Off to the side of the woods Tim once took you through with Alex and a mask that now lays as a pile of ashes is the field you’re seeking out. Blades of wavering green jut out of the soil ahead, lively, standing out against the otherwise dead earth at your feet. Wildflowers standing out amongst the tall grass shiver under the breeze, carrying their sweet scent to you and dizzying you just a bit. 

Reggie dashes ahead of you, apparently too impatient to wait for you to actually reach the field. They make certain to rub their body along the tallest of the grass, scenting it as theirs and licking at the petals of the flamboyantly colored flowers. You grin, wishing you could’ve brought a camera, but that’s completely out of the question with where you’re going. 

“Calm down,” you scold the deer playfully, jogging ahead and petting along the back of Reggie’s neck. They yelp at you, nipping his wrist through your jacket and returning to the sunflower they’re fussing over. You shake your head and continue to walk, aware of the deer’s constant presence, as Reggie never falls very far behind you in spite of their interest in the flowers.

If Google is to be trusted, you need to keep walking straight to find the rundown orphanage. In the distance where the sun is still rising and casting a weak glow over the state, a grey blot stands out against the blue sky. You have a feeling of what that blot may be, but you won’t know until you’re close enough-- and it won’t be long until you are.

What was soft shiny grass is turning to crumbling pieces of snappy yellow. It doesn’t mean much to you, but Reggie is clearly unimpressed. They glance back and forth between the flower they’d taken to nibbling a moment ago and the unappetizing dying grass beneath your feet.

“You don’t need to come with me,” you tell them, though they don’t stop following you even when the flowers cease to appear after a couple of feet beyond the field. This isn’t much better than the dirt pathway but you didn’t come here for the view. 

Still. The vague crunch of dry grass beneath your sneakers is unsettling in a way you hadn’t predicted. More noise. Noise that could be covering up the sound of an unseen stalker’s footsteps.

A stalker that could be waiting in the grey building forming before your shuddering vision, peering from the dust-caked windows, or through the door openly swinging in the wind, rusted joints creaking.

Watching close, wondering if you’ve caught sight of them as you freeze in the middle of your stride, blood cold and ringing in your ears, piercing, far more piercing than your pulsing heart. 

Knees, you need to stay upright but your knees, they’re shaking and you can’t stand anymore. Pain rockets up your spine as you make impact with the ground, your palms are scraped up but you can’t even feel it.

You’re reaching for your phone with your trembling hand, opening it up to Tim’s name. You tap in a single word, and you would have hit send were it not for the wet nose bumping into the back of your neck.

A shuddery sigh rips from your lungs. You throw your arms around Reggie’s neck and hang on tight, letting them support you and nuzzle into the top of your head. They sense something off, though all that is off is you, not your surroundings, no stalkers, eldritch or otherwise-- just you.

And, as you breathe out and wipe your tear-streaked face into their brown fuzzy fur, you know it’s okay. You knew this might happen, no matter how painful it might be to admit that it’s happening now, ripping through your chest and clawing into your skull as a scream for you to stop and go back.

Maybe you’ll try again someday, maybe on your own, maybe with a grown up Reggie at your side.

But right now? Looking up at this empty place, even in all its innocence, you can’t do it now.

And that’s /okay/.


End file.
